


The Undead's Club

by solrosan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Dessert, Dinner, Drinks, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan/pseuds/solrosan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Irene meet after Sherlock’s fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dinner for the Undead

**Author's Note:**

> This was prompted by something [zedille](http://zedille.tumblr.com) said in a post-Reichenbach chat and it became my way of getting back into writing in the fandom after all the Reichenfeels. zedille betaed it for me as an anniversary present (isn’t she the sweetest? :D Thank you!) 
> 
> She did a wonderful job just doing SPaG and leave all my craziness untouched.

* * *

_I’m not dead._  
 _Let’s have dinner._  
 _SH_

-x-

“I knew you’d come around,” Irene said as Sherlock approached the table booked in his name, or the name provided to him. It didn’t suit him, at least not if you asked her. If you asked him, the name she had picked for herself didn’t suit her either, but no one was asking.

“As you pointed out, even I have to eat,” Sherlock said, sitting down at the table with one of his fake smiles. She knew it wasn’t real, and he knew she knew that. “Tedious, this afterlife.”

“Yes, appalling, isn’t it?” she said amused. “Much more fun now that you’ve joined me, though.”

“Is there a secret handshake you’re going to teach me?” he asked with a snort.

“No, but we have membership cards. Laminated and everything.”

“Cute.”

“Don’t pout just because I finally got you to have dinner with me.” Irene opened her menu, unsuccessfully hiding her smirk. “And there are things to eat in this ‘tedious afterlife’ other than boar.”

Sherlock tilted his head, also smirking, and picked up his own menu. He was glad to see that there was no boar anywhere to be found on the menu.

“Should I be offended that you needed to throw yourself off a building before accepting the invitation?” she asked. Sherlock met her eyes for a moment before turning back to his menu.

“Molly Hooper sends her best,” he said, instead of answering her question.

“Isn’t she sweet?” There was something tender yet condescending in Irene’s voice. Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a frown. “I think I’ll have the lamb.”

“No starter?” Sherlock smoothed out his frown, looking up at her again. “Business is slow when you can’t advertise?”

“Word-of-mouth is always the best advertisement in my business, anyway.” Irene made a small gesture with her hands, as if stating the obvious. “Can’t imagine yours is going all that well, either.”

“I’ll just have the duck.” Sherlock didn’t even bother snorting or giving her anything snarkier than that.

“Wine, at least?”

“Sure.”

“Champagne, even?”

“With lamb?” 

“It’s not the strangest thing ever heard of.”

“Fine.” Sherlock closed his menu and took hers to give to the approaching waiter as well. For a short moment – intentional of her, unintentional of him – their fingers and eyes met, before he turned to the young man in the black tie and ordered for the both of them. Irene seemed very pleased with this and Sherlock – Sherlock didn’t care.

“Oh, no ring in the glass?” Irene teased him once the bottle of champagne was in an ice bucket next to the table, and they each had a filled glass in front of them.

“My work and I haven’t got a divorce just yet,” Sherlock said, looking down the glass, watching the bubbles. 

“I’m not a monogamist. You, me, your job…. We can have a good life,” she said suggestively, but he just rolled his eyes. 

She smiled. “A toast?”

Sherlock nodded his agreement, and Irene raised her glass.

“To us.”

Sherlock shook his head, and raised his glass as well. “To John.”

Her smirk became a smile, and she nodded.

“To John.”


	2. Dessert for the Undead

“What is that?” Sherlock looked with great suspicion at the card Irene handed.

“I told you, we have membership cards,” she said, smiling flirtatiously in the candle light. This was their second meeting after Sherlock had entered limbo, as Irene liked to refer to it. Sherlock didn’t refer to it at all. At least not out loud.

“How morbid.” Sherlock took the card and examined it. It was cheap, printed on a hotel lobby computer – or something equally high-tech – cut into an appropriate size, and laminated in a vain attempt to hide the fact that it was printed on office paper. 

“That’s half the point,” she said, beckoning the waiter over to get more wine. 

“I’ll remember that.” Sherlock placed the card in his wallet, making sure the picture of John was hidden from her. He knew she knew it was there, but he just didn’t want her to see it. Just like he knew she carried around a picture of her father – the only man she had really cared about, he imagined – even though he had never seen it.

“You’ll have to return it when you resurrect.”

“Did you hand in yours when you came back from the dead the first time?” There was something bitter and something mocking in his voice.

“Of course.” She sounded dead serious. “The rules of the Undead's Club are very strict.”

“You know you're making us sound like zombies, don’t you?”

“I thought I’d told you, brainy is the new sexy.”

“I can vaguely recall something like that.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t mean I fancy eating them.”

“Me neither. I prefer chocolate.”

“Let’s have dessert today, then.” Sherlock smiled and gestured to the waiter.

Irene smirked. “You tease. Has big brother upped your allowance?”

Sherlock gave her a glare before turning to the waiter, ordering two molten chocolate cakes. Judging by her small nod, she approved of the order.

“I think… Dresden, for the next time.” Irene picked up her planner – cellulose based: inconvenient, but harder to trace – and flipped through the pages.

“Warum?”

“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” 

“Ein bisschen.” Sherlock looked suspiciously at the dessert that was placed in front of him.

“You’re full of surprises,” she hummed, ignoring his eye-rolling. 

“My French is better,” he admitted. “Peut-être, à Lyon?”

“Je préfère Grenoble.”

“Pourquoi?”

She just batted her eyelashes at him, but Sherlock just sighed at the insinuation.

“So Perugia it is?” Irene smiled, writing it down three weeks from today. 

“I can’t that Friday,” Sherlock said, reaching over the table to flip through the pages – it didn’t surprise him at all that she allowed it – and stopping two weeks ahead. “How about that Thursday?”

“I'm tremendously busy that week, I’m afraid.” She shook her head. “But if we take it in Pleven, I think I can squeeze it in that Wednesday.”

“Bulgaria?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock pretended to think it over as he took a bite of his cake. They both knew that planning in advance wasn’t a part of their lives anymore, but playing with the idea was soothing. Perhaps a bit intriguing. 

“I think I can stop by,” he finally said. 

Irene closed her planner with a smile. “It’s a date.”

Sherlock smirked. “I thought it was a secret meeting of the Undead’s Club.” 

“One doesn’t exclude the other,” Irene said with a shrug. “How’s your Bulgarian?”

“Terrible,” Sherlock admitted. “But I have time to learn.”

“Not much to do in your afterlife?”

“If I’d known death would be this boring….” Sherlock shook his head, leaving the rest of the sentence up to her to interpret as she liked. 

“Good thing you have me, then.” Irene said, finishing her dessert. She left the silver fork in her mouth a little longer than necessary.

“On a leash?”

“If you’d like, but I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

“It would be a bit inconvenient, wouldn’t it?” 

“Undoubtedly.” Irene smiled, leaning back in her chair to signal that she was done, and waited for him to finish as well. Sherlock put down his fork and tugged on his shirtsleeves – more out of habit than out of need – to signal the same. He didn’t feel like finishing the cake.

“There really should be a handshake,” he said, seemingly out of the blue. “Or at least a password.”

Irene laughed. It was just as much a relief for her as it was for him to hear it.

“How about _Hamish_?” she suggested.

“That’ll do fine.” Sherlock actually smiled as he beckoned the waiter over for the check. He had a ticket at the Finlandia Hall to listen to Linda Brava and he didn’t want to be late.


	3. Drinks for the Undead

“Is this seat taken?” Irene asked, placing a light hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He sat by the bar with a glass of whiskey, a lit cigarette in the ashtray next to him.

“May I see your card?”

Smiling, she showed him her card, and sat down. Sherlock waved at the bartender and, after her nod of approval, ordered her a martini. Of course he knew what type of drink she preferred.

“Password?” she said, upon receiving her drink.

“Hamish,” Sherlock said, bringing the whiskey glass to his lips without looking at her.

“I feel like I’m in a spy movie,” she said, taking his cigarette without asking for permission. “I’ve missed smoking in bars.”

“I’ve missed smoking,” Sherlock said. He took back the cigarette and offered her a new one from the package. “You have to ask the bartender for a light.”

“My pleasure,” she said, smirking, and gestured to the bartender to bring her matches and to refill Sherlock’s glass. She raised her glass and prompted him to do the same. 

“To us, this time?” 

He nodded once, and smiled. “Ms Adler.”

“Mr Holmes.”

“I did learn some Bulgarian,” Sherlock said, after he had placed his glass back on the counter and put out his cigarette.

“That was a waste of time, seeing where we ended up,” Irene said, striking a match to help him light a new cigarette. He leaned in to let her, and blew the first smoke over his shoulder.

“I have a lot of time to waste,” he sighed. “It drives me insane.”

“I’ve heard about this game where you throw birds at pigs,” she said, picking up the olive in her martini and studying it with a focus it didn’t deserve.

“John played it a lot,” Sherlock said. He paused to give her the satisfaction of watching how she finally ate the olive, and added: “It seems completely mind-numbing.”

“Maybe your mind needs some numbing?”

“Maybe yours needs some exercise.” 

“I can’t argue with that.” She put out the cigarette, and shook her head when he offered her another. “The afterlife _is_ incredibly boring.”

“So much for word-of-mouth?” he asked mockingly.

“How’s your business going?” she asked, countering him. She didn’t care for his tone.

“I’ll be done with it soon,” Sherlock said, and emptied his glass with a small sigh. “It will all be over soon.”

“Do you need any help?”

He shook his head and got to his feet, placing a couple of notes on the counter next to his glass. “I want to meet in London next time.”

“I know this place….” she said with a smile, and waved off the approaching bartender.

“I know a place too,” Sherlock said, buttoning his suit jacket and putting away his wallet. He was avoiding looking at her. She understood why, but wished she didn’t. 

“We should change the password,” he said when he met her eyes again. He had to force himself not to roll his eyes at his own ridiculous suggestion. She smirked, and he did the same. The whole situation was ridiculous. 

“Any ideas?”

“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

Irene pressed her lips together to prevent herself from giggling at the sheer absurdity of that word coming out of Sherlock’s mouth. If she had wondered if Sherlock had said that just to make her smile, or maybe even laugh like she had the last time he talked about passwords, she would have been right. She didn’t think about that though, and Sherlock had to be satisfied with her almost laughing.

“How about _‘Rhododendron ponticum’_?”

“Oh?” Sherlock looked surprised, almost busted, but smiled nonetheless, and nodded to agree to the new password. She was pleased, which annoyed him, but he could live with that as long as John’s middle name wasn't their password anymore. 

“I’ll miss you when you resurrect,” she said. Sherlock focused on putting his coat on properly.

“I’m not sure I’m going to.”

“Miss me or come back to life?” Irene asked, not really sure which one she was hoping for. Sherlock answered by leaving two cigarettes for her next to her martini glass before walking away.


	4. Dance for the Undead

As he approached, Sherlock took the time to notice that she was beautiful in her red gown. Irene made the same observation about him in his rented white tie, but then she always paid attention to how he looked. 

The room was filled with music and people, not to mention the feeling of a real life fairy tale. It was hard to tell if the people in the Golden Hall were more intoxicated by the wine served at dinner or the surreal feeling created by the 18 million golden tiles on the walls. 

“Bond, James Bond, I presume,” Irene said as he bowed slightly and further blurring the line between reality and a late 19th century royal ball. Well, maybe this actually counted as a royal ball? Irene didn’t know and Sherlock didn’t care.

“Again with the spy movies?” Sherlock asked as he got out his membership card. 

“You should always wear formal wear,” she said, letting her eyes wander over him one more time before returning the card. “ _Rhododendron ponticum._ ”

“How did you figure it out?” Sherlock asked as he put away the card. Why they continued with this charade was beyond him. Not to mention how confusing it was that he found it comforting to carry around a homemade membership card to the Undead's Club next to his photo of John.

She just smirked, and brushed some imaginary dust off his shoulder. “This is quite extraordinary.”

“I said I knew a place,” he said, allowing her to correct his bowtie. 

“I assumed that place was in London.”

Sherlock shrugged and held out his hand. “Dance with me, Ms Adler.”

Irene smiled and took his hand, letting him lead her to the dance floor. He placed a hand on her back – disappointingly, not inappropriately low – and she laid hers on his shoulder, closing the distance between them.

He noted the scent of her perfume, and she that of his cologne. Neither of them wore what as they had at their first meeting in London. She didn’t care so much for his and he just noted that hers was more expensive than she could afford. 

“I don’t know the steps,” she whispered in his ears.

“It’s a waltz,” Sherlock said condescendingly. He rolled his eyes when he realised that she actually didn’t know the steps. “It's a good thing I'm leading, then.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she said, but followed him over the dance floor anyway For a moment, she actually felt like Cinderella.

“How can you not know how to waltz?” Sherlock wondered the second time she failed to follow his steps.

“I was raised in the late twentieth century,” she said. “Why do you know how to?”

Sherlock snorted, but a small smirk still managed to creep over his lips. “My parents believed they were raising me in the late nineteenth century. There are a lot of unnecessary skills from my childhood that I haven’t been able to delete.”

“You poor thing.” She didn’t sound at all sympathetic; if she had, he probably would have left her in the middle of the dance floor.

When the music stopped, they let go of each other. It amused Sherlock that she actually curtsied; the gesture didn’t really suit her, but she managed to make everything look elegant. 

“I’m going to Boston the day after tomorrow,” he told her over the polite applause.

“Which one?”

He smirked and took her hand as the music started to play again. His lack of answer annoyed her, but she forgot about that when he made a spin turn. It took all her concentration to just follow along and not step on his feet.

“It’s a bit unfair that I have to do this in heels – and backwards – when you’re the one who knows the steps,” she said, laughing. 

“Why would death be fair, when life isn’t?”

He didn’t leave her time to answer before he spun her again. By the end of the night, both of them had smiled and laughed more than they’d ever done since their admittance into the Undead's Club.


	5. Departure of the Undead

February, and clouds heavy with rain. The whole world was grey, really. It made Irene easy to spot from a mile away as she walked along the pavement wearing her red coat and carrying a white umbrella. Sherlock waited for her on the bridge, and joined her under the umbrella as she passed.

They walked silently as Sherlock retrieved the membership card from his wallet and gave it to her.

“ _Rhododendron ponticum,_ ” she said, placing his card in her coat pocket. Sherlock didn’t protest or question how she knew that his membership in the Undead's club was finally about to expire. 

“What’s her name?” Sherlock asked instead. An uncharacteristic blush spread over Irene’s cheeks. He thought it was endearing. Had Irene known, she probably would have rolled her eyes, because ‘endearing’ wasn’t an adjective she liked to associate with herself.

“Freya Norton. She’s a lawyer.” 

“That’s handy.”

“Like your doctor.”

“He’s not mine.” Sherlock’s smirk was replaced with something distant, longing. She took his arm and rested her head against his shoulder as they turned a corner. It gave them both an odd sense of comfort. 

“Are you nervous?” she asked as they stopped at a traffic light. He avoided looking at her, but nodded. The honest answer surprised them both. 

“I’ve talked to Mycroft,” he said, to change the topic. Any topic was better than John right now. “There is no reason why you wouldn’t be able to return as well.”

“Believe it or not, but your brother isn’t the only one I prefer to stay hidden from.” Irene’s smile was almost rueful. “I’m never coming back, Sherlock.”

“I’m sure a lot of people will be happy to hear that.”

“Are you one of them?”

He gave her a look that told her just how stupid she was to assume such a thing. Pleased with that, she smiled and laid her head on his shoulder again.

“I should get to the airport,” Sherlock said, when they had walked silently almost fifteen minutes. They stopped and looked at each other, realising that both of them were reluctant to say good bye.

“If I ever die again….” Sherlock began, with a half-hearted smirk. 

“…you’ll know how to find me,” she finished, and kissed his cheek softly. “Good luck.”

“You too.”

He stepped out from under the umbrella. It hadn’t rained a drop since morning; still, it suddenly felt very unsafe to not be under the protection of the white umbrella. 

“Goodbye, Ms Adler.”

“Goodbye, Mr Holmes.”

She closed the umbrella and winked at him, smiling before turning away. Sherlock watched her walk away for a moment or two before turning in the other direction. Both felt very certain that this wouldn’t be the last time they saw each other.


End file.
